The T.A.

this is the first part of a story i started to write when away from my wife. this first chapter has no sex for real for real. but it will come. it's talked about frequently

***

"Okay, I want to look like...lowkey hot. Understated. You know what I mean?"

My friend nods knowingly. "Yeah. How dykey do you want to look?" Her voice is hushed; her roommate worked overnights.

"Oh, I need it to scream hot lesbian." I don't hesitate.

"Okay. I can work with that. Let's see."

I rest my phone down on my dresser, stepping back within both frame and full-length mirror. The sides were painted sloppily with the intent of returning to it, at one point; I had even saved the paint.

Oh, well. Best laid plans and all that.

I turn to the side, admiring myself in the mirror. My friend gives an approving whistle, and I grin. "Good, right?" I can see her nod. She was right--I did look fucking hot. I had recently invested in a pair of shorts that fit me after a break-up, making sure to be a little bold in my choice. I was normally semi-modest, at least for a 21-year-old, and I had struggled to settle into my new style. I turn again, admiring the curve of my waist and my ass. The halter-top was a recent wardrobe addition, as it felt a little scandalous; the fabric is tight, leaving nothing to the imagination, perfectly cupping my tits. It was always cold in the classroom. This was good.

"Hello, did you forget I was here?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Cool. I'm gonna dip before you start fucking yourself on cam. And, hey--good luck tomorrow." I say thanks, and we share a goodbye. I return to the mirror, nodding approvingly. "Fuck yeah. You make a sexy dyke." I'm right--I do.

Not too long ago I left a bad relationship after a string of failed relationships. It wasn't bad-bad; he never hit me or anything, we had just gotten...a little bitter in the end. In retrospect, I was emotionally unavailable to men because I wasn't interested in them- like, at all. Then I had made out with a girl at a party, and that was that.

I say girl, and what I meant was butch. They had been making eyes at me the whole party (of course I was making them back). Who was a girl to blame? I'm a sucker for a butch; I love the way they can balance strength and gentleness, the way they appreciate women (especially us femmes), the sense of safety and relief a butch gives me. The butch of that fateful night--though I remember the kiss vividly, mostly for its ability to effect gravity--was, unfortunately, lost to medicinal grade weed and a few cherry vodka sours. What I do remember, though, makes me wet just thinking about; their arms were straining against the soft fabric of their shirt; their hands, visibly strong, and the warmth that spread down my body as they gripped my waist and jaw; the full bow of their lips, as soft as they looked; the gentle earthy scent of their shampoo and deodorant, discovered as they leaned in to say something in my ear. The rest of my memory is too spotty to recall accurately, but I remember in flashes various things: sharing a joint on the patio; drunkenly laughing over something that I'm sure was totally as side-splitting as it seemed; the way their hair (long, but it didn't look feminine on them) felt in my hand as we kissed; my long, red, slightly pointed nails--almond shaped, of course, which always make me feel like an old school femme--and my delicate hand on their arm; their laugh, bright and clear.

You can imagine how devastated I was to find out the next morning that I had drunkenly left my phone in the bathroom only for it to be stolen, and a scrap of paper with an illegibly smeared and scrawled phone number (? allegedly) on it. I had somehow also lost my panties throughout the course of the night.

I had a job starting over the summer, as well as summer classes, so while I was utterly and completely depressed about my personal tragedy, I was too focused on my junior year to ruminate on it for too long. I was excited to start back after I had taken a break for a few semesters. The regularity of the schedule was always good for me, and I was determined to hold myself accountable this semester. That wasn't hard, of course, because this year was going to be different.

Why?

That's a great question. I want my T.A. to fuck me.

***

Tuesdays and Thursdays have become my new favorite days of the week. There's a spare Wednesday in there, as well, if I'm able to find the time off from work to go to their office hours. It's all harmless, really; I'm simply casting out a line and seeing if I get any bites. This could all be off base, as well. Lesbians have a funny knack for being mated for life at the age of twenty, so it's not often to find one (especially a devastatingly hot butch) in the wild. I know, too, that they need encouraging before they blossom; part of my duty as a femme is to lure them in.

It's easy to act confident, but it's another thing entirely to feel confident. In reality, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I feel sexy--like, genuinely hot--for the first time in my life, in a way that feels...true. Real and authentic. I love the way my body has started to change, curves softening out in a way that feels remarkably feminine. I can really understand what Narcissus went through at times; the amount of time I spend in front of the mirror admiring my best angles is embarrassing.

Anyway--I have a plan, right?

School started a few weeks ago, and I was signed up for an upper-level psychology course. It was a relatively small class, definitely smaller than others I'd taken on campus, with a semi-absent professor. And the T.A.

Oh, my god. What to even say? There's something about seeing a butch like that, unprompted and unexpected, hair pulled back into a small bun. I've never considered myself to have a type; I think I attract a very specific type of top, but my physical type has always been wildly different. Well, except for one thing: arms. Fuck, there's something about them, and butches do everything better. I love to see the quiet strength in the curves of their arms, love to see clothes filled, love to have something solid.

I have a lot of air in my chart. Maybe that's why I'm obsessed with people that are so...Earthy. For lack of a better term.

Normally, I wouldn't be so presumptuous to start acting like a slut for a complete stranger, but there was something about them that just felt...magnetic. I felt pulled to them immediately, having to hide my glances in class, trying to work up the courage to ask them a question. That hasn't changed several weeks in--they still make me feel red-cheeked and shy, not unlike a teenager--but I think I can read them easier. They're always happy to help out anyone with a question, even on days where they look visibly off, and they respond with such genuine kindness to everyone that it's astounding. It makes me feel kind of like an asshole.

Not only that, but fuck, they are the hottest person I've ever seen. This is embarrassing to admit, so just know I'm being really candid here, but I don't know if I've ever been fully attracted to another person like this before. I don't even know if they know my name, but that doesn't really matter. There's something so undeniably hot about a masc bun, especially when someone wears it so well, but it suits them down, too. They're sturdy, which is maybe my favorite feature (other than a big, goofy grin I managed to get once). Their arms fill out the sleeves of their shirts in a way that feels obscene and makes me blush if I think about.

Frankly, I'm normally a prude. It still makes me a little shy to think about my T.A. like this, not wanting to be pervy or gross, but the way I caught them looking at me once ignited something in me.

I remember it because I had to masturbate like, three times that night. I had been dressed cute because I was meeting a friend after class, planning to go to a new brunch place. The dress was one of my favorites; light, floaty, coming in perfectly at the waist, in a beautiful shade of light blue. It was an insane thrift find and one of my new most prized possessions; it had even inspired my summer transformation.

Anyway. I had a question after class, although it was something I could've easily emailed after the fact. I slowly packed up my bag, waiting out the other students that trickled out until there were only one or two left waiting to speak to them. I stood back, waiting my turn, before turning around to pick up my bag. I wasn't thinking about the length of my dress when I bent to scoop the handle of my backpack, suddenly feeling cool air on my very thin, lacy underwear and snapping up straight. I spun around, and that's when I saw it.

The look.

It's hard to describe it, but I think the great Nicki Minaj sums it up perfectly in her hit single, Super Bass: "[they] just gotta give me that look/when [they] give me that look/then them panties comin' off." It was just a moment, and thankfully the other student had been walking out of class looking at his phone. I felt my cheeks turn red immediately, heart rabbiting in my chest.

I felt ensnared. It felt like we had both acknowledged a mutual hunger in the moment our eyes met, but that could also just be me--my therapist says I need to be more careful with romance. Whatever. This isn't romance, anyway, because I can just die happily after they've fucked me.

I've thought about it in extreme detail. My professor is very kind, but his lectures aren't nearly as exciting as thinking of those thick fingers sliding up my neck, the way they'd fill my mouth, the chill at the thought of a thumb brushing my nipple. I've unfortunately had time to think about grinding against their thigh, or--fuck--a packer. That last one feels especially damning, and I reserve it for only special masturbation sessions because it makes me cum too fast. I've thought about them making me beg for their cock, bending me over their desk with my panties in my mouth to keep me quiet, thick fingers teasing my dripping pussy.

I'll need to be institutionalized if I can't cool it soon.

My plan, ultimately and truly, is to just be a cute, hot femme in their vicinity, and maybe we can make out when I graduate. Mostly it's fun; the flirting on my end feels harmless, and I think I'm respectful. It's to wear my absolute hottest clothes and drive them crazy, and when the moment's right...Maybe I'll strike.

We'll see.

It's also a reason for me to buy new lingerie, needlessly delicate and complicated; to get my nails done, shiny and pink; to pamper myself a little. Crushes are good for people, right?

Whether they are or not, I hope this works out in the least embarrassing way possible.

***

The first Tuesday after my beautiful plan was hatched, my heart sank when I walked in and they weren't there, spot empty and untouched. They were normally early. This was not good. I played cool, of course, but I can't say that I didn't internally jump for joy when they come scurrying in moments before the professor. Their hair is messier than usual, a few loose strands hanging around their face. Maybe they're up to their own little plan, because their shirt makes me fucking drool: the dark maroon complements their complexion, the long sleeves folded and rolled up carefully to expose an especially strong looking forearm. It hugs their tummy and chest in a way that is absolutely to die for, and I feel my face turn hot as I make eye contact with them, giving a panicked smile as it dawns on me that I had just checked them out. And they noticed.

Fuck. The plan, the plan, the plan. Be cool. I tried to reassure myself as I immediately look down at my notebook, picking at my cuticle absently while I waited for my blush to subside. Fuck, they look good today. I suddenly wish that I had worn a hotter outfit; maybe I should've worn my main course outfit instead of my appetizer outfit.

No. I can't think like that.

Class crawls by, and most of it is spent stealing furtive glances at them. Our eyes make eye contact a few times, and each time I get a little braver, maintain it a little longer, allow myself to be more coy. They started looking away quickly, then.

Maybe this was working.

Finally, after the five weeks that occurs every 9:45 Tuesday and Thursday, class is over. As usual, students mill about, and I take my time packing up. I make sure to be gratuitous where I can; I bend over, legs straight for a moment, to unplug my charger; I momentarily get on my knees, poking around under my desk in search of a pen cap. I reapply my lip gloss, and by the time I've re-packed my nest, the classroom is empty except for my T.A. and I.

"I can't believe you were late because you got coffee and didn't even offer me any."

They look a little startled as they look up from packing their own bag, grinning. "I wasn't even late. I made it in before the professor."

"I don't know, according to my records it was 9:47. Last time I checked, class started at 9:45." We both laugh, loud in the emptiness of the room. "You know, I had a professor once that made us bring donuts in if we were late. You know what that means." We're both standing within two feet of each other, maybe a little more intimately than we need to for a very empty classroom. God, they're so fucking handsome. I'm momentarily dazzled (in the words of the great Edward Cullen) at the eye-roll and scoff. You're not looking for a relationship. Snap out of it.

"Yeah? I guess I owe you donuts, huh?"

"Yeah. At minimum. Next time you won't get off so easy." I lean my hand on their desk, grinning like a little shit, leaning forward conspiratorially. They bark a laugh and I lean back, satisfied. "You seem so shy, but you have such a nice laugh," I pause, grimacing. "No, uh--like it's big. It's nice. Like..good vibes." I make another face, but they snicker again.

I think they can sense my embarrassment because they shake their head. "No. I understand what you mean, that's really kind of you to say." The compliment makes my stomach lurch into my throat and I can't help my smile, feeling shy. "What kind of donuts do you like?" This makes me feel even more shy and I wave my hands.

"No way. I was joking. You don't have to get me donuts. And you're right, you weren't late," I reassure quickly, shaking my head. They remain unphased.

"Okay. I'm not. What kind of donut do you want?"

We go back and forth for a second before I give up, knowing that it was a losing battle. I sigh, exasperated, and cross my arms. Of course, my arms are perfectly propping up my tits, and I concede. Seeing them react up close, being able to smell the cleanness of their scent and knowing that my perfume must be discoverable at this length, makes me wet. I think about their smirk and the way they could tease me forever, and I could beg for more.

There's a beat before I realize I've been totally quiet. I immediately clock back in, catching the tail end of their statement.

"...so I might be running a little late--in actual people time--but I won't forget."

I laugh, slightly dazed, and shrug. "Seriously. Don't worry about it. Don't be late for it." There's another beat and I realize that I don't know what time it is, but it feels like we've been talking for at least thirty minutes. "I gotta go, but for real: don't. If you do, I'll get you next time. But don't."

We say our goodbyes and I head out the door, clumsily dropping my keys on the floor. Oops. I bend to pick them up--channeling Elle Woods--and mumble a curse before hurrying to the door.

As I leave, I cast a glance over my shoulder. Their eyes drag up my body and meet mine, and warmth rushes down from my head to my toes. I feel my pussy throb and I turn, unable to hide my satisfaction, to fling myself out the door.

I didn't know my plan yet, but I felt that this was a great first step. Or something.